


Signs of Carnality

by kindauthor



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, F/M, I actually don't know if this is like dom or what idk I just wrote it, I mean its Hannibal ofc, Implied Cannibalism, Light Choking, No Beta we die like Kings, PWP, Porn With Plot, Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, but also it's me so there's some plot, domestic Hannibal, light blood, like actual pwp, no y/n, reader is a brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindauthor/pseuds/kindauthor
Summary: The reader has been recruited as the media liaison for the unit, and meeting Dr. Lecter for the first time begins an interesting relationship between the two of them.Written as footnote pieces to the first season, reader is not gendered in first chapter, but is written female for the rest!
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Original Female Character(s), Hannibal Lecter/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 147





	1. Carnal Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader has just joined the unit as their media liaison, which brings her to meeting Dr. Lecter for the first time to retrieve a necessary psychiatry profile on their next case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader has no defining features! I was just too lazy to do a true original character for this fic, but please, by all means, give them anything! I only really specify that they have a vagina, I didn't even gender them in the fic (that I know of). Enjoy guys, gals, and non-binary pals!
> 
> Also I just started watching Hannibal, so no spoilers please. Mads Mikkelsen is just so hot.
> 
> EDIT: This is becoming a little fic series. I will probably gender the reader from here on out as female.

Jack had been very clear, mostly at your insistence, but nevertheless, he had been clear. This was the address of Dr. Lecter’s offices, but it just didn’t _seem_ right.

You were relatively new to the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and new enough that Jack Crawford still struggled to see your relevance. Couldn’t they just go through the FBI’s other news liaisons? Did they really need one of their own? You insisted yes, and so did the bosses above Jack, but it was taking some time for everyone to warm up to you.

It wasn’t your fault really, you understood it from a genuine perspective, you were the newest member, the newest person for everyone to see hanging around the office. And you hadn’t proven yourself yet. Of course everyone else had their moment to shine, with Will Graham, it was obvious, then the others, Dr. Bloom, Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian — they had all been working together for much longer, they didn’t have a thing to prove.

But you, you did.

And all you’d done so far is stir up trouble and ask for the latest psychological profile that their resident consultant had written up. Only Jack didn’t have it, and everyone else was indisposed, leaving you to make the trek to the starkly industrial offices and double-check the address one more time.

There was a small set of stairs and you took them carefully, holding onto the metal railing as you walked to the top and debated on knocking. Instead you stepped inside to a narrow hallway, very short with only a couple doors. On one half was a sign to an interior stairwell and a janitorial closet, on the other there was a small placard.

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter, psychiatry_

You hummed and then pulled it open.

The secretary’s desk was empty, a green light flickering on the landline sitting at the edge. It was probably your call, just letting Dr. Lecter know you had been referred to come pick up the profile as soon as possible by Jack. It was important you reviewed it before talking to any press, and before anyone unsavory could get their hands on it — especially if it was anyone associated with TattleCrime.

You hesitated, looking around the absolutely minuscule room. Surely the office wasn’t as small. Jack had spent a lot of time talking up Dr. Lecter to you, about how much of an asset he was — and not to fuck it up.

The only other door in the room was just past the desk, with faded glass that showed the barest hint of light on the other side of the door. Steeling yourself, you sucked in a small breath and then reached for the knob, turning it as you stepped inside carefully, calling out, “Dr. Lecter, Jack Crawford sent me —“

The words died in your throat.

Whatever you expected — a small office, maybe a chair and a couch — was vastly underestimating the sheer size of the office behind the door. Stupidly, with one hand still on the knob, you gaped at the fraction of the room you could see around the corner, yes there was a couch, there were chairs, then a ladder to books that seemed to wrap the expanse of the room above your head. All of it seemed central on a desk at the opposite end of the room, where a man was looking up at you with an expression of guarded curiosity.

Even from across the room, you could see the tiny twitch in the edges of his lips as he carefully laid the scalpel down on the table. You weren’t certain what he was using it for, but it couldn’t have been anything but a scalpel, glinting silver in the warm yellow light.

Clearing your throat, you pushed the door shut behind you and stepped forward. “I’m sorry,” gathering yourself, you exhaled and smoothed out your coat. “Jack Crawford sent me to retrieve the psychological profile of the Virginia Ripper, I’m the new media liaison. I’m not sure if you got my call earlier that I was on my way.”

The man you could only assume was Dr. Lecter, stood, pushing his chair back and nodding as he moved papers carefully on his desk, deft fingers pulling a few sheets from a stack and flicking his wrist. With a snap, the papers held themselves aloft between his fingers.

You hesitated in the doorway, then took a step forward and another, the heels on your boots echoing with soft thuds as you crossed the extravagant carpet to reach the other side of his desk.

“If you called the office, my secretary will be out for a while,” He seemed so much taller up close, built to withstand every inch of his height, filling out a grey-beige suit, the buttons undone on the jacket to reveal a cleanly pressed shirt underneath, unmarred from the day’s creases.

You suddenly felt underdressed.

“I did,” You reached out for the pages, “Its no issue, I’m glad I could still catch you.”

His lips quirked again, eyes casting downwards to look at you as he pulled his wrist back just slightly, leaving your fingers grasping at air. With a tilt of his chin, Dr. Lecter smiled, almost to himself. “Yes, I was just preparing to go grab dinner.”

“Oh,” You reached out again, a hint of something catching in your throat at his look, “then I really won’t keep you.”

This time he didn’t pull the pages back and you took them, glancing down once to ensure it was the Louisiana case, then pausing as your eyes skimmed the page, the gruesome details floating up. You hesitated, aware his eyes were on you as you read his appraisal of whom the killer could be, down to the background and the victimology.

“Is it to your liking?”

You exhaled and looked up, feeling heat flood your cheeks. “Sorry, of course it is.” Smiling, you pulled your briefcase around and unlatched it as you glanced back and forth between it and him, filing the pages away. “I just, sometimes forget I guess, the kind of people we deal with. I’m still new to this unit.”

Dr. Lecter’s lips twitched, “Yes, the content we see is not for everyone.”

“You could say that again.” You exhaled, latching your bag again and then glancing back at the door. “I’ll let myself out, thank you, again —“ When you turned to look at him, Dr. Lecter was shuffling papers again, then pulling another out. When he flicked it outwards at you, you gave it a confused look. “What’s this?”

He stood silent until you took it. This time when you glanced down you saw a full profile, one page, on _yourself_.

There were details that you’d never disclosed to the Bureau, even though you’d passed all their assignments with flying colors in the academy. Hell, you’d sat in the round seats of Will Graham’s class for a few short weeks and also managed to earn a nod of approval from the man who you were now supposed to be working with.

“What is this?” You repeated the words, your voice clipped this time, looking up sharply at Dr. Lecter.

“Jack Crawford asked me to look at three candidates for the new position, your name was among them. I wrote up cursory profiles, and well, this was your’s.” He motioned faintly to the paper in your hand, then tilted his head slightly as his eyes flickered over you. “I believe I made the right assumptions now that we’ve finally met.”

The paper crinkled between your fingers and you set your jaw. “I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed by someone I’m supposed to be working with.” Jack’s words echoed in your mind, don’t piss off the consultant, don’t sever a very careful tie between the FBI and one of the greatest psychiatrists in the greater DC area.

You threw the paper back on the desk. “And you were wrong.”

“Really?” Dr. Lecter smiled, “Which part?”

“All of it,” You spat the words, turning halfway to leave, the carefully printed words on the page behind you still running through your mind. _Potential to have an issue with authority, consideration needs to be made over usefulness versus annoyance._

You weren’t fucking _annoying_.

“I can see I’ve caused some discomfort,” Dr. Lecter spoke so carefully, but each of his words seemed undercut with the same small smile. It made your skin crawl, your blood boil — “Though, it would help me, as a profiler, to know which parts you took offense too.”

You whirled, taking a startled step back when you realized he had moved closer. He was quiet, like a snake in the grass, and already out from behind the desk and in between the space of you and where the paper lay flung behind him. Even closer and you could smell his cologne, a heady scent spiced with citrus — clean, warm.

Exhaling sharply, you raised your chin and stared at him. “First, I do not have issues with authority —“

“Excuse me,” Dr. Lecter smiled, “But I can’t help but notice that you’ve already referred to Jack Crawford as only “Jack,” even though he is your superior, more-so, you’ve only referred to myself as Dr. Lecter — which is flattering, thank you, but I imagine it’s the barest hint of a courtesy you could gather. Still the _idea_ of referring to Crawford as anything but his first name, instead of rather, Detective or Agent, probably makes your skin prickle.”

Underneath your coat, the hair on your arms stood up as he looked you over again, his eyes cutting through your clothes as easily as the scalpel in his hands had carved into the papers shuffled to the side of his desk. Intricate and careful cuttings of buildings, intensely structured and beautiful architecture — all made with the flick of the wrist and tiny cuts of paper.

You swallowed hard. “What would you prefer I call you?” Staring up at him, you raised your chin, feeling your jaw set. “ _Dr. Lecter_?”

His lips parted as he stared down at you, eyes narrowed as he hummed. “ _Sit down_.”

The words cut you to the bone, a shiver running down your spine as you took a step back unconsciously. There was a chair just to your left and you were touching the armrest before you could fully comprehend it.

He was _smiling_.

“Did I stutter?”

You sat down on the edge of the chair, looking up at him as he stepped forward from the desk and looked down at you.

“Take off your bag.” His eyes skimmed you again as you dropped it to the floor, then he ran a finger over his lips. “See, perhaps you were right, you don’t have an issue with authority, you seem to listen just fine — it just needs to be the right authority.”

Your throat felt tight, your chest weighted as your fingers curled into your palms. His gaze was so intense you wanted to look away, but something kept you defiant, staring back at him as he quirked an eyebrow.

“Or, perhaps, you are a bit of a brat.”

Your mouth went dry as you pushed up from the chair. “I’m —“

His hand snapped out, wrapping around your wrist before you could think of the end of your sentence, let alone say it. “Did I allow you to stand? Sit down.”

Your eyes cut up to his, stepping closer as he stared down at you. With a curl of your own lips, you met his gaze, unflinching. “Make me.”

Dr. Lecter smiled, something terrifying flickering behind his eyes before he let your wrist go. You were nearly chest to chest with him, and neither of you moved, the barest of breaths between you before his head tilted a little lower as your’s tipped up.

“That can be arranged.” The words were whispered just before his mouth landed on your’s, a hungry kind of unbridled passion that made you step closer, even though your body screamed to step back. It felt dangerous, out of nowhere, but you rode the high as you grabbed onto his chin, pulling him down against you as his hands deftly pushed the buttons away on your jacket and had it off your body in moments.

It landed in a heap on the floor beneath you as his wide palms ran over your arms, then your sides and hips, grabbing onto you and pulling you flush against him. The kiss broke just enough for you to gasp for a breath, then you grabbed onto his hair and pulled him back down, your nose grazing his before you pressed closer, eliciting a low groan from the back of his throat.

Before you could think, he had you spun around, backing you up to the edge of his desk where your hips just butted against it. Bending down, he grabbed at your legs, lifting you up and dumping you at the end of the wood. It was cold even through your slacks as you pulled his head back in, kissing him hungrily as his hands worked to pull your sweater over your head.

You had been chilly before walking into the offices, and now your skin felt like it was made of fire everywhere he touched it. The movement of your sweater over your head broke the kiss long enough for you to perch on the edge of the desk, breathing hard and staring up at him in a mixture of lust and wonder.

He merely smiled smugly back at you.

“Did you provoke me?”

He leaned in, bracing a hand on either side of you, still clothed and looking like the cat who ate the canary. “What do you think?”

You exhaled, smiling slightly before reaching up and shoving at his suit jacket. He grabbed at your neck, pulling your head up and tipping it so he could kiss you deeply again, grabbing your hips to pull you just to the edge of the desk, teetering on it before his hand dropped, cupping you through the slacks. With a little moan, he smiled against your lips and flicked the closure open on them.

It wasn’t delicate, you lifted your hips and he shoved your slacks down as you reached ahead and pushed his trousers down just enough so you could grab him through his underwear. With a little hiss, he stepped closer as he slipped two fingers under your underwear and flicked his wrist. The fabric ripped like it was nothing and you sucked in a breath as he ran the same fingers over you.

“Predictable.”

You pushed your hand under the waistband of his underwear and wrapped your fingers around him tightly. “I could say the same.”

His underwear didn’t last much longer than your’s and then he was pressed against you, your hand guiding him until you were both nose to nose, chest to chest, and hovering in the moment. Then his hand wrapped around your hip and he pulled you forward and you pressed your lips against his harshly, moaning as he pressed into you.

“I urge you, be loud.” His lips tore from your’s, marking their way to your neck as he pressed into you and pulled back, his hips thrusting quickly as your hands tightened in his hair. Keening against him, your back arched as he moved even faster, every move more precise than the last.

With maddening accuracy, his free hand dropped between you, touching your clit and sending your leg wrapping around his hips, tightly pressing against him as his finger rubbed quickly and he sucked on your skin, tongue soothing the spot after his lips pulled away.

You were gasping for air, clinging to him as you rode him higher and higher, seeing white behind your eyes as his teeth returned to the raw skin on your neck, biting down as you clenched around him and tore at his shirt, dragging your nails half down his skin and half down the fabric, screaming against his shoulder.

He pulled away harshly and you looked up, head still spinning as he pulled you off the edge of the desk, as his hand turned you, you dropped down to the desk, feeling him grab your hips again before you arched against him. If possible, it was even better, and your toes curled in your boots as you grabbed at the desktop, sending papers scattering as you cried out.

Reaching around, he grabbed at your hair, then ghosted his hand down to the back of your neck, holding it for a moment as your skin broke out into goosebumps. Half clothed, you leaned up, back to his chest as his hand moved to wrap around the front of your throat, loosely as you gasped out.

“ _Hannibal_.”

He buried his face in the back of your head and hair, and you reached back to grab onto him as you pressed back harder, each moment making you stand higher on your toes until you were unraveling against him, sinking back as his hips slammed into yours, then finally stilled.

You were wound tight, held up by his hand on your throat as one hand dropped to the desk.

Sucking in a breath, you pulled it up sharply, a thin, razor slice across your palm where you had accidentally slammed it against the scalpel blade from before. Hannibal moved his head, then carefully dropped his hand from your neck and touched your fingers. As he drew back, you turned and he lifted your palm up, wrapping his lips around the cut and sucking once before pulling your hand back down.

“I look forward to working with you.”

You let out a breath, staring at him as your head spun for a moment, then the air seemed to clear and you nodded. He readjusted himself into his trousers as you pulled on your slacks, turning when your phone began to ring in your jacket on the floor. Bending, you picked it up and dug out your phone, answering the call.

“Jack?”

“Well, are you satisfied?”

You paused, keenly aware of Hannibal’s eyes on your back.

“I’m sorry?”

“With Dr. Lecter’s profile, is it what you expected?”

You turned and looked at him over your shoulder as he fixed one of the stray papers on the edge of his desk, a poor attempt at fixing the absolute chaos you both had just caused.

“Yes,” You swallowed as Hannibal raised his eyes to you, sending a shiver down your spine. “I look forward to working with him.”


	2. Carnal Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to take your first crime scene in stride, but your visceral reaction to it makes you reconsider your position. Hannibal is, of course, there to experience the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore warning, but it's nothing worse than the show! You can skip past the crime scene description if you'd like. I can't believe I turned this into a series, I love making up plots for crime fics. Enjoy!

There were two dogs howling in the next house, owners removed from the premises because their neighbors had become an active crime scene overnight.

It didn’t seem to bother the rest of the team as you stared up at the house, half grown up with ivy, the other half leaning on itself to stay upright. You imagined that they couple who lived there felt a personal connection to the place — you couldn’t really imagine any other reason why two people would continue to live here.

It was on the cusp of West Virginia, still very much in the Virginia Ripper’s territory, which was enough to irritate Jack in front of you as he prepped Will for what was inside. You’d yet to step in yet, but two of the crime scene detectives already walked out, staring up at the sky and sucking in gasps of air. You also really couldn’t imagine it was anything good.

Jack walked in, Will close on his heels, and you hesitated for a solid moment, staring at the wide open door.

Just last night you were live on the national news station with a press conference, “ _Please be mindful of who you let into your home, they may seem like a friend, they may seem like family, but the Virginia Ripper is targeting those who offer kindness, one of the gravest broaches of trust._ ”

And then this morning, the call to the off-duty police line, a _smell_ coming from the neighbor’s house, and a frantic call from the local police to the FBI. _“Please take this one, it’s your’s._ ”

You sucked in a breath and turned your head towards the dying afternoon sun, then steeled yourself one last time and approached the doorway. Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian were all inside already, obstructing your view of the massacre, but not the smell.

No, that hit you full force the moment you reached the archway to the living room.

Your stomach reacted before your brain could, a heave and a flip as you took a step back and covered your mouth. Beverly choose that moment to shift to the side, finally giving you a clear view of the two bodies, so intertwined with each other you couldn’t tell where the husband ended and the wife began. Their bodies were broken beyond comprehension, forced into a position that left their rotting skin pressed against each other. Combined with the fact the Ripper had been turning the heat up, effectively _cooking_ the victims and speeding up the decomposition — you couldn’t handle it.

You turned on a dime, desperate for air and running straight into a plaid suit.

This time it was your brain that reacted first, forcing you to hold the bile in your stomach as you jerked your head up to stare at Hannibal, standing in front of you and reaching out to steady you with a hand on your shoulder. You pushed past him and stumbled to the back door, then out to the side yard before turning and throwing up the breakfast you had grabbed before rushing into work.

“Where the hell —“ You could hear Jack behind you, then a grunt of disapproval.

You wiped at your mouth, bent over the grass as you sucked in a shaky breath.

“Allow me, Jack, I don’t think it’s necessary for me to be inside just yet.” Hannibal’s voice was clearer, crisp, and you heard the grass crunch before pushing yourself up and stumbling a half step.

“I’m fine.”

“Get yourself together.” Jack snapped in your direction before turning back towards the house.

You stared at his back as he retreated back into the crime scene, leaving you in the yard with Hannibal, who was staring at you impassively, one hand on the pocket of his slacks. Reaching up, you wiped at your mouth again, the acidic taste of bile in your mouth as you stared at him. Flashes of two nights ago had kept you up since leaving his office.

“I will imagine he will warm up to you.” Hannibal looked back briefly at the house, then turned his attention back to you, one eyebrow slightly raised. “What experience have you had with crime scenes prior to today?”

“Not much,” You rasped the words, wishing you hadn’t left your bottle of water in your car around the front of the crime scene where the local news was already gathering. All you had on you was your gloves for navigating the crime scene itself and your cell in your pocket. You had to make a statement before you could leave.

Hannibal reached into his pocket and pulled out a white, cellophane-wrapped mint, then held it out to you. You stared at it warily before reaching to take it, your fingers brushing his hand as his curled up to touch your skin. Pulling your hand back, you unwrapped the mint and popped it into your mouth.

“Thank you.” Looking down, you crushed the wrapper in your hand and then shoved it into the pocket of your jacket. You didn’t want any of this to be awkward, you never intended to be left alone with him again after what happened in his office. You didn’t actually intend to work with him directly, a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and fear of what could happen if you were — was absolutely too much to think about.

Beverly stepped out onto the side porch, eyeing the two of you and then clearing her throat. “Hey, Graham is doing his — well he’s being Will, and you’ll probably need to hear this for the press.”

You rubbed your hands against your slacks and walked past Hannibal back to the house. The mint in your mouth staved off some of the nausea as you returned to the doorway to the living room, where Graham was standing in the center, with a strange expression on his face, twisted and cruel. It made your skin crawl as you tried not to breathe in too deeply, shallow breaths coming up short as he talked to no one in particular.

“ — Arranged like they got one final moment of passion, one moment of sin before they ascended to heaven. This was my design, a moment of pure carnality before peace.”

You swallowed hard enough the mint almost slipped down your throat, coughing, you turned your head, trying to cover it up as a reaction to the smell again, your eyes watering. Jimmy clapped you on the back, casting you a look before turning his attention to Jack who was staring at Will and demanding to know what it meant.

“I would gather, as Will has, that your _Virginia Ripper_ is serving his own brand of hellfire and brimstone justice.” Hannibal’s lips quirked upwards and your heart leapt involuntarily in your chest. “The word _carnal_ is from the late Latin, _carnalis_ , which takes its roots from the Latin word for flesh.” Hannibal stepped forward and the spell Will was under seemed to be broken for a moment as Hannibal tilted his head to look down at the two bodies. “And the Greek word _keirein_ , to cut or shear. Which is what it appears your ripper has done, flayed skin from bone and further layered the bodies together — truly becoming one in death.”

“Actually,” Will chimed in, “the arrangement is very similar to classic Greek sculpture work, see how his genitalia is —“

“Jesus,” Brian muttered to himself, taking another photo before shaking his head. “I’ll get all this back to the lab, Jimmy and I can see what we can get from all…” He gestured loosely, “ _this_.”

Jack’s attention moved from the two profilers in the room to you, “Did you get all that, rookie? Arrange it into something palatable and get it out there to the news.”

“He killed again so soon because you spoke before. We should keep an eye out.” Will stated bluntly. “You could be a trigger.”

You blinked at him, then took a step back, holding your tongue as you caught Hannibal’s eyes on you just before you turned and walked back towards the front and through the door.

Smoothing out your jacket and hair, you flashed a smile to the news crews, keeping it muted as you guided them to an angle that didn’t keep the house behind you as you spoke carefully.

Yes, this appeared to be the work of the Virginia Ripper, no you all were not certain as of now who the ripper was, yes you were working off various leads from his other two clear signatures, and no you couldn’t comment on _why_ the Johnsons — they were a very normal couple.

“And can you address the position the bodies were found in?”

Your eyes cut to a young blonde reporter, her eyes sharp.

“No, the FBI has no further comment on this ongoing investigation.”

“But weren’t they —“

You cleared your throat, sucking in a breath tinged with mint. “I have no further information for you at this time.” Turning away from the reporter who continued to hurl questions at your back, you walked towards the cars your unit had arrived in, stepping around them just before the attention was pulled away towards the doors where the coroners were finally wheeling the bodies out, having carefully separated them finally.

Leaning on the side of your car, you pressed a hand against the cool metal roof and then unlocked it, reaching in to drag your water bottle out. Taking a long drink, you leaned back up and looked over at the circus, each trying to get their camera in a position to get "The Shot" of the bags going into the van, the bodies being slid into the vehicle, just before the doors shut. A variant of the same angle would be on every station tonight.

“I think that went well if that was your first experience at a crime scene.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” You jumped out of your skin, water splashing over your hand as you turned sharply to see Hannibal standing to the side of your car.

He cracked a smile, then quickly rearranged his features, smoothing it over as he looked at you, eyes moving up and down your body. You felt just as disheveled as the day you met him, at this point, you were unsure if you would ever be prepared for the way he looked at you.

“I apologize, I assumed you would be less on edge now that the press have started to leave.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, standing almost casually in front of you, his eyes not straying from your face. “I admit, my being here was partially selfish.”

You decided to screw the lid back onto the bottle of water before you leveled him with a look. “Oh? It wasn’t professional curiosity to see the absolute carnage inside that house?”

“No,” again, he fought back a small smile, allowing it to lift the edges of his lips only on one side. “I wanted to invite you to dinner.”

Your mind went blank as you stared at him, already feeling heat on your skin, touch memories of the moments his hands had shoved your sweater off and pushed you over the desk.

You blinked and refocused. “Tonight?”

“Yes, if you’re free. Though I can be open another night.” Hannibal glanced at you, “If you’re able, please join me tonight at six.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and produced a card, holding it out to you in the same manner he had the mint.

You reached for it and he pulled it back, just slightly. “Any dietary restrictions?”

You paused, fingers curling in the air before you reached forward a step and took the card from him, on the front was his office information, which you knew, the back was the address for a home in Baltimore, not too far away, written in very fine curled script.

“No restrictions, but I prefer light meals.” You looked back up at him from the address, eyes flickering to the house behind you both, “I actually prefer vegetarian or vegan meals.”

Hannibal nodded once at you, “Of course.”

You watched him turn and walk back towards the house to catch Jack exiting with the rest of the unit that were filing the last things from the crime scene. Squeezing the water bottle, you tossed it back into the center console of your car and then stooped to get into the driver's seat.

The entire drive back to your little apartment and subsequent shower after you got home felt like you were partially in a dream. What moments you weren’t thinking of Dr. Lecter, you were thinking of the bodies twisted and flayed together, rotting in a warm house. Your stomach wouldn’t stop churning even as you laid your head against the cool tiles of the shower.

When you got out, you considered calling as a courtesy and telling Hannibal you couldn’t make it. Actually, you considered calling Jack’s boss and telling her that you wouldn’t be continuing on with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Still, you found yourself pulling on a nice sweater, running your fingers over the cashmere as you pulled it down to your hips. Then sliding your legs into a pair of looser trousers with a tied waist.

Glancing at yourself before you walked out the door, you sucked in a breath, looking away. It was just dinner.

The address took you to a home that was warm and a deep yellow on the outside, like sandstone or just a tinted stone. You pulled your car up and parked, stepping out to look up at the house before licking your lips and walking up to the front door.

You reached out and knocked on the door sharply, pulling your hand back as you heard movement from the inside. It only took a moment before the door was tugged open in front of you and Hannibal stood just inside the doorway, a towel slung over his shoulder, in a casual grey sweater. He took you in and then stepped to the side.

“You’re early.”

You stepped in beside him as he pushed the door close behind you. Glancing back at him in the tight entry hallway, his eyes flickered back to you for a moment, the air feeling warm all of the sudden.

“I’m just finishing up, feel free to join me in the kitchen.”

He brushed past you, chest barely grazing yours as you stopped breathing for the barest of moments, watching him turn back towards the end of the hallway. You sucked in a short breath and followed him, pressing your nails into the palms of your hands as you trailed behind him, looking around at the simple, but ornate home.

When you stepped into the kitchen, you paused, much in the same way you had in his office. It wasn’t ornate, in fact, it was very upscale and modern, a different kind of money and taste. The counters were carefully arranged with bowls of ingredients, an array of greens and toppings for what seemed like salads. In metal bowls were different kinds of nuts, fruit, and there was even a small carafe of what looked like homemade vinaigrette.

Hannibal picked up a knife he that was laying on a dark wooden chopping board and resumed finely dicing some pecans.

“Take a seat.”

You stepped into the kitchen, taking a seat at one of the stools directly across from him as he laid the knife back down and picked up a bottle of white wine, pouring it into a flute and then handing it over to you.

Taking it carefully, you lifted it to your lips and took a sip, pausing and looking down at the glass. “Wow, I don’t normally enjoy alcohol, but this tastes so floral.”

He smiled as he resumed chopping, “It’s good, yes?” Hannibal turned and picked up his own glass, taking a long drink and then looking over the top of the glass at you. “I hope you enjoy the meal just as much. I thought to prepare your salad for you, but because of your preference, I left the arrangement to you.”

A pang of something went through your chest and you swallowed before smiling at him gently. “Thank you, that’s very considerate.”

Hannibal nodded and hummed before turning and shifting something in a pan. It was warm and thick, definitely meat of some kind. A splash of wine in the pan made the sizzle turn into a brief roar as flames leapt up and then burned the alcohol off almost immediately.

You took another drink of your wine and then spun the closest bowl around on the counter with your finger, looking down at the dried cranberries inside of it. With a tiny smile, you picked one out and popped it into your mouth, looking up to see Hannibal watching you.

Swallowing, you pulled your hands back, smiling slightly. “Sorry, I really love dried cranberries.”

“By all means, have some.” The little smile returned to his lips. “I want you to enjoy this evening, not to be wary of me.”

“I’m not wary.” You responded too quickly and you both knew it. Clearing your throat, you slipped off the stool and looked around the kitchen, holding your wine glass loosely in your hand. “I don’t want to fuck up any professional relationship I’m obligated to have, that includes you and Jack.”

“You didn’t _fuck_ Jack.”

The word sent a shiver down your spine when he said it and you glanced over at him.

“No, I did not. But he’s angry with me and this seems like a serious breach of professionalism.” You lifted your glass to your lips and took another drink.

Hannibal hummed, “Unorthodox, yes, but unprofessional, no.” He swept the pecans into their own metal bowl and turned to wipe his hands off on the towel over his shoulder. “Technically I am not employed by the FBI, just a consultant and a profiler. Nor am I in a position of power over you.”

You snorted, lowering your glass. “Is that what gets you off? Technicalities?”

His fingers curled around the knife before he put it back onto the cutting board, looking up at you under his lashes as he smirked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You pressed him, stepping back towards the counter, it the only thing separating the two of you. “Technically you shouldn’t have shown me the profile you drew up on me, for confidentiality reasons, but it also technically provoked me.”

The smirk grew wider as one of his eyebrows raised. “Is this what you think?”

“I don’t think, I know.” You sat your glass back on the countertop, turning your gaze from him to scan the kitchen again. When your eyes found their way back to him, Hannibal was still looking at you. “You probably knew I wouldn’t back down once you did it.”

He leaned up from the counter, brushing his hands off again. “And what of me?”

“Well, I’m hot, you obviously saw my photo before profiling me.” You picked your glass up again and smiled at him over it before draining the rest. “I never said you didn’t want to.”

“To what?” He pressed you, against the counter on the other side as his eyes flickered down to look at your neck as you swallowed.

You placed the empty flute on the counter, glancing back up at him, sufficiently empowered by the lightest buzz. “To fuck me.”

Hannibal hummed, nodding as he looked at you. “And what do you think tonight is?”

“It’s just dinner isn’t it?” You met his gaze until you began to feel your heart in your chest. Turning away first, you nodded towards the other door in the kitchen. “I’ll see you in the dining room.”

He didn’t stop you as you left the empty glass and walked a little too quickly into the other room, two places already set at the head of the table. You exhaled hard, looking back at the door as it swung shut and shaking out your hands. You weren’t sure what got into you the moment he was around, but it faded just as quick once you were away, leaving your fingers tingling and you wondering if you were briefly possessed.

You didn’t have much time to consider it as the door opened again. Hannibal stepped in with two bowls. He breezed past you and placed them down, both salads artfully arranged. You blinked as he pulled out the chair to the side and looked at you expectantly.

Stepping over, you smoothed out yourself before sitting down, feeling him shift you into place in front of the table before he stepped back into the kitchen and returned with the bottle of wine and two fresh glasses. He poured your’s first, then topped himself off before taking a seat next to you at the head of the table.

You looked down at the salad, surprised he had completed it after what he said in the kitchen, but there wasn’t a hint of anything on it that you didn’t like, with dried cranberries, a variation of nuts, a mixture of greens, and the glistening vinaigrette, it looked delicious.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow when you looked up. “I took a few liberties, I hope you don’t mind. No meat.”

You picked up your fork and exhaled, smiling as you looked up at him. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, smiling back. The conversation was easy, not a hint of discussion of what both of you had experienced early in the day. You expected him to press, to talk about the profile again, or ask what your intention was moving forward. Maybe you had a better poker face than you thought, but you were certain that wasn’t the case, he was just being polite.

You put your fork down to take another drink of your wine, the second glass already dipped down to the end. Hannibal had finished his topped off glass and was refilling his. With a motion of his wrist, he nodded to your glass. “Would you like more?”

“Oh no,” You laughed, taking a shaky breath, “Already too much alcohol probably.”

He smiled to himself and placed the bottle back on the table. “Pacing is important, but you also didn’t include necessary carbs and protein to help soak up the alcohol in your stomach.”

You laughed and looked down at your empty salad bowl. “I know, it’s just…” You looked up at the ceiling, grimacing. “It’s strange,” you were avoiding his eyes, feeling them on the side of your face. “I just haven’t been able to eat it since I started at the FBI, especially not since I began explaining in gruesome detail what happened to reporters and reading full case files about what people can do to one another. I can’t stomach it.”

Hannibal hummed, then laid his fork down. “So the trouble began after you began your position?”

“Oh no,” You finally looked at him, sucking in a breath and laughing nervously. “No, don’t profile me,” looking down at your half-full glass, you added the last word softly. “Please.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded so genuine, you glanced back up at him. Pushing his wine glass back, Hannibal leaned back in his chair, almost lounging as he looked at you. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, actually, I’d enjoy doing the exact opposite. I’d enjoy making you very comfortable, even relaxed, blissful.”

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat, your lips parting slightly as you stared at him. The warmth in the room was just from too much wine.

“Hannibal,” You pushed back from the table, feeling the flush in your cheeks as you pulled your cloth napkin from your lap and tossed it onto the table.

A little light reached his eyes, something behind them as he stared at you. “Yes, darling? Is this a lack of comfort, or just a refusal to accept the way the conversation turned?”

You turned and looked at him, heart in your throat as you stood up from the table. “It’s unprofessional.”

“No, it would be unethical for me to approach a patient, but it’s entirely fair for me to approach a colleague — especially one as charming as you.” He looked up at you from his seat, making no motion to get up as you hesitated next to the table.

You saw it before he realized he was doing it. In his lap, one of his hands was flexing, his fingers stretching out, splaying for a moment before curling back into a restrained fist.

Stepping closer, you breathed out hard, reaching out to touch the side of his face. He turned his head, kissing the interior of your wrist as your fingers ghosted over his skin, the scent of his heady aftershave making your heart pound a little faster as his lips grazed over your pulse. He pressed his nose against your skin and smiled.

“I was hoping to have dessert, if you would allow it.” He spoke the words into your skin, then looked up at you, lips twitching. “Allow me to clear the table.”

Hannibal pulled his arm back and swept it across the wooden tabletop, scattering china along the floor, shattering glasses as he grabbed you by the hip and pulled you closer, standing up and letting his chair slide back on the rug. You sucked in a breath as you stared up at him.

He was _smiling_ , more than you’d ever seen before, reaching his eyes with a wicked glint as his hand reached up and touched your cheek. You leaned up, into his touch before smiling back, your eyes fluttering closed. “Dessert sounds nice.”

His lips pressed hard against yours and you took a step back, pulling him with you as you felt the table dig into your hips from behind. He wasted no time in grabbing you by the waist again and lifting you up on the cleared surface, moving his lips to your jaw and neck, inhaling deeply as he hummed. “Lovely.”

You ran a hand through his hair, breathing in as his other hand ghosted over your hip, running down then back up just to touch the waistband. “Are you fond of these?”

“Yes,” You breathed out, looking down at him, “Don’t destroy all my clothes.”

Hannibal smirked, then leaned over you, kissing you again as he focused on pulling the tie open on them, pushing them down as he pushed your back flat against the cool wood. There was no barrier but your sweater between you and it as he pulled the trousers down and threw them to a corner, grabbing one of your thighs and pushing your legs up and apart. He dropped down to one knee between your legs, hooking his arms under you as he pulled you closer and dropped his head to kiss your thigh slowly, tongue darting out onto your skin.

You were already breathing hard, your mind a little fuzzy from the wine, but also skin burning with every touch. He was overwhelming, in an incomprehensible way, and you lifted your hips as he rid you of your underwear in a flash, fingers sliding across you slowly.

Moaning, you slid your hand through his hair, falling flat on the table as his tongue wandered over your skin, teasing and sliding until he pushed a finger into you slowly and buried his face between your legs.

“Again,” He urged you, looking up briefly as the vibrations of his words made you moan again. “Feel free to be loud.”

Your eyes rolled back into your head as he began to move his finger, adding a second one as his tongue moved against your clit, pressing against you as his hands expertly moved against your skin, pulling you closer and then pressing a hand against your stomach as the pressure began to build. You rolled your hips forward on the table, breathing harder and harder as you tried to hold back, but the noises kept getting louder as you pressed against him and softly whispered his name.

He was relentless as he moved faster, jerking your hips almost fully off the table as he groaned against you, sucking on your clit harshly and moving his fingers faster, curling them up and angling his wrist.

Your other hand jerked down, grabbing onto his hand as you gasped and arched off the surface, the other hand tugging on his hair as you jerked against him, feeling the waves of warmth and overwhelming shock as your orgasm hit you hard enough that he turned his head and bit down on your thigh, prolonging the aftershocks.

When he pulled back, he moved his hand, sliding it out of you and then wiping it carefully on his abandoned napkin, With his thumb, he swiped the pad across his lips after licking them and looked up at you with a smile.

“Would you like to stay for the evening?”

You dropped your head back down to the table, your mind blissfully blank for a moment as you sucked in a breath, then, against your best interests, you nodded.


	3. Carnal Pursuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Virginia Ripper strikes again and Jack requires Hannibal to rewrite a tighter profile and you to do your best at smoking the Virginia Ripper out of hiding. After, you visit Hannibal's office just as Will is leaving and you and Hannibal dance around each other.

You didn’t get a chance to take Hannibal up on his offer as a host, instead he received a call from Will as you got one from Jack. The Virginia Ripper had killed again, and it was just as gruesome as the first, though caught much quicker.

It terrified you that somehow your face, the information that fell from your lips, would be the cause, the hair that decided if the ripper would unsheathe his knife or not.

You dressed quickly and were gone to your car before you could process any of it, the dinner, the _dessert_ — you ignored it in favor of a too-fast drive to the headquarters and running directly into Beverly in the hallway who gave your slightly unruly appearance a double-take, but didn’t comment on it. Instead, she sucked in a breath.

“Crawford called Dr. Lecter, Will’s on his way there now I think they’re going to do some kind of brain thing together and hopefully get us a much clearer profile. If we can get it out to the media tonight, maybe we’ll get this guy. Especially if you go back in front of them again.” She cast you a sympathetic look, “I’m glad I’m not in your job right now.”

All you could muster up was a grimace in her direction before making a beeline for Jack’s office.

He was visible through the glass door, sitting behind his desk with his hand rubbing his chin over and over again. With a tiny swish, you pushed the door open and stepped inside, clearing your throat.

Jack glanced up, then back down at the files in front of him. “If you’re resigning, don’t tell me until after we catch this bastard. You’re the only one keeping him from disappearing like he did five years ago.”

You swallowed and adjusted your sweater, shaking your head. “No, I came to see what I can do, even if it’s pissing him off so you can catch him.”

Jack looked up again, then nodded his head. “Okay. Then let’s get you in front of a camera.”

They set you up in the media room, with a plain background behind you and an earpiece that was connected to a call with Will Graham. He was going to feed you the profile as soon as you started speaking live, between him and Hannibal, they were supposed to know all the right things to say.

You were terrified.

The camera light began to blink off and on, a sign that you were nearly live as soon as you were patched into the local news. From behind the glass on the other side of the room, Jack watched you with narrowed eyes and a guarded expression. You didn’t know why he didn’t like you, but at this point you had other pressing matters to attend to.

“Hi Lacey, if you don’t mind, I’ll be speaking directly to the Virginia Ripper.” It didn’t even sound like your voice, sliding into the old tone you used when you were just a journalism student, recording test tapes for the collage newspaper.

In your ear, Will rattled off. “White male, early thirties, religious issues.”

“I want to talk to you, because I know you.” You stared at the camera, willing your voice not to shake. “I promise that whatever you think God is telling you to do, whatever justice you think you can carry out for Him — it’s not right.”

“Good,” Will spoke up. “Upsetting him will likely make him slip up, target the fact he has intimacy issues.”

You cleared your throat. “You think it’s dirty, right? These things people do, sometimes married, sometimes not. You can’t correct them all, you can’t find every one of them you think are going against God. I promise you, you’ll never find them all before we find you.”

“He may very well have issues with women in authority positions.” Will was half-rambling and you swore you could hear a voice in the background. “Throw in a line or two that you can’t wait to see him caught.”

Staring at the camera, you smiled just slightly. “And when we do catch you, I don’t think you’ll even be worth me, my boss, or anyone else I work with, actually bothering to talk to you. I mean, at the end of the day, you’re just a delusional man, with nothing better to do than terrorize people.”

“I liked that spin.” You could hear the surprise in Will’s voice.

The camera light continued to blink and you got the final feedback from the reporter — the same blonde from before, Lacey — “Thank you, Lacey. The FBI would like everyone to keep an eye out for a man matching the description of the one being sent to you.”

The cameras cut and you exhaled. Your hands were trembling, but Jack seemed satisfied as he stepped away from the glass and walked down the hall, presumably to finish giving the rest of the profile and get it sent out to all the outlets covering it. With the Johnsons killed yesterday, two more tonight — and the potential for a slip up and another unplanned murder tonight, you were certain Jack had other things to do.

But you were also scared shitless.

Beverly gave you a thumbs up from the other side of the glass as you reached up to pull the earpiece out. Just before you did, you heard faint conversation.

“— the chances of it working are good, and I do believe that we narrowed it down. We may not have a name, but you and I both know the type.”

“A severe drive for religious acceptance, enough that he would turn to saving those he deems worthy, who have sinned overtly in his opinion.”

“There’s also the potential that they goaded him, which we just tested.”

You pulled it out of your ear and dropped it onto the table in the press room, your stomach rolling as you stepped out into the hallway. Beverly grinned at you, “Well, if that didn’t piss him off, I don’t know what will.” She turned her head as Jimmy’s popped around the end of the hallway and then offered you a tiny wave before jogging off to go join him back in the lab.

As far as you knew, nothing much had been pulled from the Johnsons this morning, and the current bodies had only just arrived. A jolt of fear went through you at the thought of the ripper already out on his next hunt, your words echoing in _his_ head.

You gathered your things and walked down the hall, seeing Jack through the glass talking to Beverly and the guys. You didn’t stop until you reached the elevator, pulling your coat back on and wrapping your arms around yourself as you rode it down and stepped out into the dark parking garage.

They made everyone in the academy certify with the shooting range, an agent was an agent, and the entire point was to be able to protect yourself and those around you in times of crisis. Your fingers itched next to your side as you hurried toward your car, instead pulling your cell out as you got in and locked the door quickly, glancing into the backseat behind you.

Nothing.

Exhaling, you tried to calm down, a pang of white-hot fear shooting through you. It had been _years_ since you’d had any touch of anxiety, but the idea that you had baited a serial killer with your own words, your own face, just in the hopes he would slip up enough for your colleagues to get him — it was enough to never make you sleep again.

You hesitated as you pulled out of the parking garage, looking in both of the directions you could go. With a split-second decision, you turned the wheel to the left, turning yourself towards Baltimore. You didn’t even need the crumpled business card in your center console as a guide.

The further you got from the Virginia line, the more at-ease you felt. The Ripper had his specific area he killed in, and yes, it crossed over into West Virginia once, but never Maryland.

You pulled up in front of the offices and wrung your hands together before getting out of the car. From outside, there were no lights, but after taking the steps up to the side entrance, you saw the interior hall light was still illuminating the doors. Pulling it open, you pulled your coat closer and immediately tugged the door open to the waiting area, sucking in an uneasy breath.

The salad you had eaten before had worn off considerably, and your stomach gave an uneasy growl as you reached for the door to Hannibal’s office. Before you could wrap your hand around the knob, it jerked open.

“Oh.”

“Hi.”

You stared at Will Graham as he stared back, the two of you both wide-eyed and startled.

“I was just —“ You hesitated, but it was enough that Will glanced over his shoulder where Hannibal was visible, standing further inside his offices. The light was already turned off, but he flipped it back on. Clearing your throat, you turned your attention back to Will. “I needed the updated profile in case he doesn’t slip up tonight.”

Will nodded, pushing his glasses up with a finger. “Calling wasn’t easier?”

“It’s no trouble,” Hannibal’s voice was smooth, severing the awkward silence in the air. “I’m sure I will see you tomorrow, Will.” The end of the conversation stopped Will from speaking up again, but he did look at you curiously as he walked around you and to the exit.

The little bell above the waiting room door jingled once as the door latched shut again.

You turned to stare at Hannibal, all the anxiety resurfacing as your throat closed, making it impossible to choke out anything other than. “I was scared.”

The look he gave you was hard to read, but then again, you weren’t too certain he was easy to read, unless he wanted to be. Still, he pulled his briefcase off his shoulder and stepped to the side. “Come in, there’s no reason to be frightened.”

You hurried into the office, listening as he shut the door behind you, already in the process of throwing all your things down to the floor next to one of the chairs, clawing at your coat to get it off as you sucked in a quick breath.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know where else to go — I’m a damn FBI agent and I’m terrified — Well, I feel like maybe I have a right to be — He is _murdering_ people, and what did I do? I goaded him — “ You ran a hand over your face, rambling half to yourself and half into the air. Turning around in a little circle, you realized Hannibal had completely disappeared.

“Please, keep talking.” His voice carried down from the shelves above and you turned, tilting your head up to see him pulling a book from the shelf before climbing, near silently, back down the ladder.

You let out a breath and ran your fingers through your hair. “Well, it all just boils down to being terrified the Virginia Ripper will slaughter me.”

He paused at the bottom of the ladder, turning to look at you with a slightly raised eyebrow. “And you chose _me_ to come to?”

“Yes,” the word was softer and you swallowed back the burn in your throat from nerves. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

You realized, suddenly, that the reason he was so quiet was that he had left his briefcase and shoes near the shelves by the door. Padding across the rug to you, Hannibal stopped just inches away and held out the book, a small smile playing on the edges of his lips.

“If you were a patient, I would say it’s perfectly normal to feel intense fear after such a day, but since you aren’t —“ He motioned for you to take the book, and you looked down at the cover as you took it from his hands. A very old copy of Hans Christian Anderson fairytales, with worn and yellowed pages — you glanced back up at him. “— Since you aren’t,” Hannibal repeated himself, reaching out and pushing your hair back, “I’ll lend you this, and offer you the comfort of my offices and my home.”

You held the book tightly for a moment, then sighed and leaned in, dropping your head against his chest. He had changed from the casual sweater at dinner back into a crisp white shirt, and you only felt a little back for wrinkling it as you stepped closer with a little sigh, letting the book hang loosely in your fingers by your side.

Hannibal reached up and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, using a hand to cradle the back of your head as he held you in place against his chest. Sucking in a breath, you turned your nose towards the smell of him, the crispness of his shirt, a faint stark laundry detergent, but overwhelmingly the scent of his cologne — spiced and heady.

You felt heavy in his arms, the kind of weight that you weren’t sure came from anything else but the feeling of panic, a weighted awareness of your own body.

He dipped his head down and kissed the crown of your head, pressing his face into your hair and inhaling for a moment. With a tiny noise, he pulled back and you tipped your head up to look at him.

Hannibal gave you a wry smile, “Blackberries.”

“Hm?” You paused and then laughed, “Oh, yeah, I got new shampoo.”

He touched your chin and then smiled. “Why don’t we go back to my place, I’ll turn on one of the fireplaces, and you can rest assured knowing you will not be alone for anything that comes creeping into the night.”

You laughed and shook your head, touching his hand and nodding. “That sounds nice, thank you.”

He walked with you outside, leaving you to follow him back to his house only a few minutes away. You felt like it was a hair poignant that you would end up back here, after leaving so quickly just hours before. The night was high though, quiet and peaceful as you walked with him to the front door. Hannibal let you in first and flipped the light on for you both in the hallway.

You glanced over at him, backlit against the front door and smiled slightly.

He looked up and gave you a slight side smile before motioning you forward. “Please, make yourself at home.”

You watched him walk down the hallway, disappearing into a side room opposite the kitchen. Looking around fully, you glanced at the stairs that led upwards and then slipped your shoes off, leaving them next to the door. Taking off your coat, you kept your phone on you as you wandered down the hall, the kitchen was dark, and when you passed the entrance to the dining room, it was picked up. You paused in the doorway and then shook your head, pulling your eyes away from the table to walk across the hallway.

The living room was nearly the same size as his office, open, but still warm and inviting. Hannibal stood up from the hearth, the fire springing to life as he turned and looked at you, eyes flickering over your sweater again.

“Wine?”

“Water.” You replied, walking across the soft carpet to a black leather couch and sinking down to sit with your legs curled underneath you. “I think just water for the foreseeable future.”

He chuckled and then nodded, “I’ll be right back.”

You turned your head and watched him go, taking the opportunity after he had stepped out to flop backwards on the couch and close your eyes. Something was bothering you — more than the idea of the Virginia Ripper — no, this was something else. You opened your eyes again, looking around the living room, the heat from the fireplace comforting.

Standing up, you stepped over and reached out your palms to warm them, rubbing your hands together and then noticing it wasn’t just logs in the fireplace. There were scraps of paper curled at the ends, still burning. You bent down and tilted your head at it, it looked like charcoal drawings, but you weren’t going to reach your hand into the fire to see.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and frowned as you got up from the crouch. There were less books here, but in the corner of the living room were double doors. You stepped over to them and then pushed them open to a smaller office, equal to the size of the dining room across the hall. In the center was a desk with Hannibal’s briefcase sitting on the floor. You could see the scalpel sitting next to charcoal pencils, sketches, and paper cuttings.

“I don’t use my home office much.” Hannibal’s voice carried and you turned to see him walking into the living room with a carafe of water, placing it on the coffee table carefully before joining you in the doorway. “Though, when I do, it’s often to step away from work, patients, and the very irritating Jack Crawford to draw.”

You turned and looked up at him, smiling slightly. “I noticed you drew the night we met, but didn’t see any of them up close. I imagine they got a little smudged from the desk to the floor.”

He hummed, nodding back down at you, the same echoes of a smile on his lips. “Some did.”

You sucked in a breath, tightening your arms around you as you turned back around and looked at the living room. “I like your house, Hannibal. It’s warm, but also very telling of you.”

“Is it?” He sounded slightly surprised, curious as you stepped back towards the couch and spun to grin at him. He was eyeing you from the doorway, the office at his back.

“Yes, it is.” You picked up one of the glasses and poured yourself some water, taking a sip and then smiling at him. “Let me try _my_ hand at profiling. Humor me.”

Hannibal gestured, looking at you with small creases by his eyes. “Go on.”

“Okay,” you swallowed and then put the glass down, reaching your hands out. “So, since you know everything about me, I can only guess at what you’re history is like.” You turned, looking around at the dark walls, the fire crackling in the background as you thought, your voice getting quieter. “You’re not from America, obviously, from your accent. But more than that, I think you’ve been alone for a very long time, maybe a separation from your family for some reason.”

You turned and glanced back at him, taking in the silent way he stood in the doorway watching you.

“And being here provided a sense of normalcy, you’re near DC, so you have the chance to work and do the things you enjoy but you’re not overwhelmed by a city quite as sleepless as Washington.” You walked around the coffee table, spotting a book and then bending down to pick up a medical journal. You glanced back at him and smiled. “And you’re constantly learning.”

Hannibal nodded, “All astute observations. Can I add some pointers?” He walked over and plucked the journal from your fingers, placing it back down on the coffee table and tilting the corner slightly so it lay perfectly off-kilter. Leaning in, he looked down at you, “Don’t lay every card out at once,” He brushed his hand against your side, breath fanning across your cheek, “Especially if you may be more right than you even realize.”

The hair stood upright on the back of your neck as you turned your head and looked at him, eyes narrowing as your brows knit together. “I don’t care to know every intimate detail of your life, Hannibal.” It was his turn to shift his face, his own eyes narrowing just slightly as you stood chest to chest, staring at each other.

“You can know everything you want about me, I don’t care.” You reiterated, staring up at him as you licked your lips. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a psychiatrist from Baltimore,” your eyes flickered over his face, “A friend,” you exhaled softly, “And I’ll make a judgement call after if you were a bad decision or not.”

He stared down at you, then stepped forward, his head tilting down as he lifted a hand to touch your neck. Your eyes fluttered as his fingers ran over your skin, goosebumps rising where he touched you.

Loosely, his hand wrapped around your neck, applying no pressure, but hanging, like a necklace.

Your eyes rose to meet his as you tipped your chin up, raising an eyebrow. “I will say, you’re very possessive.”

The words cracked him and he smiled, a roguish smirk as he pulled you closer, his hand moving to hold your chin as he leaned in to kiss you deeply. You shifted so you were chest-to-chest with him fully, smiling against his lips as your fingers slid over his shirt. His jacket had been left somewhere and it gave you the opportunity to truly run your fingers down, popping the buttons open to reveal his chest as your lips brushed against his.

He held you by the back of the neck, letting you push his shirt open as you stared at each other. There would be others to pursue after the Virginia Ripper was caught, you thought maybe even one of these days you would help Jack Crawford find his white whale, the Chesapeake Ripper.

As Hannibal nudged your nose with his, you closed your eyes and pulled him closer, kissing him again.

His hands were large and warm as he freed you of your sweater. This time both of you pushed at each other. His shirt fell to the floor, while your trousers joined him as you shoved his belt open and kissed him harder. Hannibal’s hand didn’t stray from the back of your neck, pulling you closer step by step until you were both in front of the fire.

The rug was just as soft against your back as it was on your feet as you dropped down to the floor. He hovered overtop of you, drinking you in clearly ashe braced himself with a hand, eyes flickering over your body before moving his hand from your neck finally and sliding it down your exposed skin.

You breathed hard, his hand pausing only to wrap around your thigh and pull your legs apart as he settled between them. Carding your fingers through his hair, you pulled him down and lifted up from the floor to kiss him harshly. He breathed out against your lips before biting down on your lower lip. Wrapping a leg around his hips, you moaned as he pressed against you, thrusting his hips forward.

Between the heat of the fire next to you and the feeling of him overwhelming, all around you, you felt like your heart was resting in your throat. It wasn’t rushed — but hungry and passionate, both of you clawing at each other to pull closer and press harder. He breathed out against your jaw, pressing his face against the side of your’s as you moved with him, rolling your hips upwards.

His fingers dug into your hips as he picked up his pace slightly, breathing hard as he turned his lips, pressing them against the shell of your throat. You felt them part just before he bit down, sending shivers down your skin as you cried out, your head falling backwards.

You weren’t sure how long you both stayed pressed together, the weight of him on top of you, but it was long enough that you felt a wave of exhaustion after he moved to lay next to you.

You turned your head into his chest, closing your eyes as you wrapped your hand around the skin on his waist, pressing your palm against him as you breathed in and out slowly. You couldn’t rest, not after the day, every moment running through your head and blurring together.

But for tonight you preferred the comforts of another breathing human next to you, instead of case files and the oppressive fear you had put a target on your own back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to gore and murder in the next chapter. I'm just a sucker for plot and character development.


	4. Carnal Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Virginia Ripper wasn’t provoked by you, leaving Jack angrier than before and at a loss on how to find him. You get a chance to review the files of all the cases that came before you, including all the ways Hannibal was involved.

Hannibal insisted on a cup of coffee before you could leave in the morning. He actually insisted on cooking you breakfast — eggs, toast, whatever you’d like — but you knew the time it took and the distractions that would probably occur, would prevent you from getting from your apartment to work on time.

You settled with the coffee and patting his cheek softly as you reminded him you would see him later. He caught you by the hand before you could fully pull away though, standing in his kitchen with the morning light carefully drifting through the old windows.

“I know you didn’t sleep last night.”

He dozed off in front of the fire, you watched it until it burnt low enough in the hearth that it roused him next to you, and you both moved to his bed.

“I’ll be okay.” You smiled at him softly, covering his hand with your other one. “I promise.”

Hannibal’s expression twisted, before he sighed and bowed his head. “I’ll relent only because it’s Friday and I know you will hopefully rest this weekend.”

“No rest for the wicked, unfortunately.” You squeezed his hand once, then slid away from him, drinking one more sip of coffee before abandoning it on the countertop.

He chuckled behind you and you turned halfway to look at him. Just because you hadn’t fallen asleep didn’t necessarily mean you hadn’t _rested_. It was peaceful, being next to him, and it had given you time to ease in and out of anxiety. The moment it began to flare, all you’d done was turn to look at him on the pillow next to you.

“I know you’re wicked, you continue to remind me of that and seem to be a continual distraction for me when I’m with patients.” He smiled slightly, eyes flickering over you. “My desk may never be the same.”

“Well, plenty of other surfaces for me to defile in your office.” You laughed a little, taking another step backwards towards the door, lingering still. “I believe you have… two chairs? A lounger… what else, oh the bookcase ladder. I imagine that could be interesting.”

Hannibal grinned at you, it breaking across his face so much that it made you stop short. “Tantalizing.”

You swallowed, the taste of coffee on your tongue as you stared at him. “I.. I should go.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Nothing stopping you from leaving, let alone me.”

You knew you shouldn’t, your body and mind were screaming to just leave it alone and drive home. But you both had gotten up early, and it was still early enough from the clock behind his head.

“Maybe you are stopping me.” You glanced around the kitchen, looking anywhere but him.

He took a step forward, then another, before grabbing your chin gently and turning your head, tilting it up to look at him. “Am I that pleasing to be around?”

“Around, under, on top of,” Your eyes locked with his as you got quieter, “You have very nice hands.”

His fingers curled against your skin, sliding over your chin and then running over your jawline and neck, smoothing over you until they hit the fabric of your sweater and jacket. Hannibal glanced down at you, pressing his lips together with a tiny smile.

“I do?”

“Yes,” You whispered, eyes fluttering as he started to push your jacket off one arm, then the other. He was a level of intoxicating you hadn’t ever encountered before, especially since every touch felt like it was calculated to be just the right amount of unbearably slow. “Hannibal…”

His laugh was soft as he stepped closer, tilting his head so he could meet your eyes. “Yes, darling?”

“How much time do we have?”

“Enough.”

You laughed as he pushed your jacket to the floor, leaving it in a heap as he pulled your sweater off. Backing up, your hips bumped into the countertop, reaching for his fresh buttoned shirt and running your fingers down it, popping every one of them open until you were staring at his chest.

He touched your chin again, tapping it to get you to tip your chin up. “Do you think we will ever find a proper surface?”

Hopping up onto the counter, you lifted your hips up as he pulled your trousers down. “I think the memories we’re about to make in your kitchen makes it a proper surface.”

He shook his head slightly, pressing his lips together to hide a smile as he stepped between your legs, pulling your head down against his as he kissed you again and ran his hands over your sides, sliding them lower and lower until he was pulling your legs apart farther.

You breathed out against his lips, losing yourself for as long as you could, the only thing behind your eyes being the sparks that ricocheted up your skin with every touch.

The drive home was longer than you really wished it would be. Since your apartment was almost in DC proper, you spent a lot of time in morning traffic, glancing over at your phone as it vibrated over and over again. On the third round, you picked it up.

“Jack is on the warpath.” Beverly sounded upset, her voice normally never wavered, but you glanced up at your rearview mirror for the hundredth time on your drive to an empty backseat and cleared your throat.

“I know, there were no bodies last night.”

“Nothing from the Virginia Ripper, nothing from the Chesapeake Ripper for years, he’s not doing well. He likes blueberry muffins from this place on third.”

You finally reached your exit and pulled off the interstate, sighing. “Noted.”

When you walked into the offices, you had a brown box with four muffins and your first stop was Jack’s office. He wasn’t inside, so you placed it on the dead center of his desk, hoping that it would avoid any kind of misfortune before turning and leaving to go find a pile of documents on your own desk.

Looking around warily, you dropped into your seat, flipping open the first file and recoiling.

The photos staring back at you were some of the other cases that remained partially unsolved, or had been solved by Will Graham since he joined the unit. There was a man who carved wings out of skin and made himself guardian angels, a cannibalistic father with a daughter still out there, and — at the bottom of the pile, among files of the Chesapeake Ripper, was a violin instructor and string instrument salesman who had carved a man just to play him like a fiddle.

The nausea overtook you again and you pushed up from your desk, looking up at the old ceiling and sucking in shallow breaths.

Maybe you truly weren’t cut out for this work, the constant back and forth and the awareness that where one was caught, killed, or tracked to the ends of the earth — another would pop up in his place, like the heads of a hydra.

Footsteps slowed behind you in the bullpen and you turned to see Jack standing with a muffin in his hand. You glanced from the muffin to him, and then looked down at the files. Sometimes it seemed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and this time when he took the two steps to even ground with you, he heaved a sigh.

“I thought you should know what you’re getting into. Especially if what you said yesterday is still true. If you stay here, that’s what you have to look forward to — And I don’t need another Miriam Lass on my hands.”

Lass, an FBI trainee, missing for two years and recently — just before you arrived — her arm had been found.

You looked over at Jack, sucking in a breath. “I just want the Virginia Ripper caught.”

“I just want the Chesapeake Ripper found.” He took a bite of the muffin and then looked over at the files. “And I would like to know your opinion on him, especially with the messy files we have now. Bodies that could be from him, but also a handful that could just be a copycat. I’d like to know your opinion.” Jack chewed thoughtfully as you turned around and looked at one of the case files of a man who had been harvesting organs.

Hannibal’s name caught your eye and you picked up the file, eyes flickering over it as Jack chewed in the background.

“Dr. Lecter has been involved for a while.”

Jack shrugged when you looked up at him. “He’s been an asset, take a look at the violin case.”

You dropped the file you were holding and then pulled out the other, flipping it open and feeling your stomach churn at the photos taken. Then further, there it was — photos of Hannibal’s office in disarray, notations that he had been involved in an altercation and had been the one to kill the murderer in the end. No wonder he had seemed so shocked you went to him last night.

“We’re keeping extra men on the ground for the next twelve hours in hopes your Ripper appears.” Jack’s words made your eyes raise to him again. Sinking down in your chair, you watched him brush muffin crumbs off the front of his suit. “If he doesn’t, you’re going on the air again. I’m not letting him disappear on us like the Chesapeake Ripper.”

He stomped out of the bullpen and you watched his back retreat down the hallway, stomach churning as you turned to look back at the photos. You curled your fingers into a fist, then unfurled them, hands shaking as you started to read every single file Jack had left for you. The cases that Will solved went into a pile of their own, details about what profiles he had crafted, then details of murders and open-ended cases to another pile. Most of them belonged to the Chesapeake Ripper, but there was a small stack, about a quarter of the size, that all fell in line with the Virginia Ripper.

The sleepless nights seemed far away as you read each of the Virginia Ripper files, cover to cover, every ounce of text, trying to figure out if you could make him slip up. The cases started with a couple in Reston, then blossomed out to the surrounding areas, all the way to West Virginia for the last four bodies found, the Johnsons and then a couple after them. The final couple, the spur of the moment kill that had taken you away from Hannibal’s dinner — they were the only gay couple.

It was hard to look at the bodies, they were a rejection while everything else before was carefully crafted and intertwined. The two men were brutalized beyond anything you could even imagine. Honestly, you thought they were a spur of the moment kill, a slip up because the Virginia Ripper was so angry about your comments. You just didn’t understand what you said to set him off, the questions were basic, answers intentionally vague. You had run the moments over and over in your head.

“ _The Johnsons were a normal couple_.”

You stared down at the file on them, married for close to twenty years, no children. The other killings from years ago, all couples with no biological children, though some had adopted or attempted IFV. Then the final couple, two men who couldn’t — physically — have children together, though one had a son from a previous marriage. Another offense against the church, sex without the promise of a child, divorce —

“Oh my god,” You whispered, staring down at the files. The only person the Ripper could be was a preacher.

You pushed up from your desk finally, looking around at the mostly dark office. Confused, you pulled your phone out of your pocket and saw two missed calls, then finally registered the time. It was well past nine in the evening.

Pushing a hand over your face, you squinted at your missed calls again, then opened up your voicemail, pressing your phone to your ear as you rearranged the files for tomorrow.

“ _Will said he passed you when he left two hours ago. Is everything alright?”_

A beat, then Hannibal continued.

“ _I hoped you would stop by this evening. Please, call me back._ ”

The first of the missed calls was from over two hours ago, the most recent was only thirty minutes ago. You rubbed your face and cast a look at the files one more time, the murders blending together, killers captured, aloof, dormant —

“I was beginning to consider a search party.”

“I’m sorry,” You pulled your eyes away, clearing your throat. “Jack gave me all these files, even some from Miriam Lass and there was so much to look at. There were all these cases with Will Graham, so many murders and consultants and then just a week before I was assigned there was Tobias Budge.” Your voice softened, “It’s just so much…” You trailed off as you made your way to the elevators, “To process I guess.”

The end of the line was silent and you pulled your phone back to check it hadn’t disconnected.

“Hannibal?”

He cleared his throat. “Are you angry with me?”

You closed your eyes and leaned back against the elevator, feeling your stomach drop as it did. “No, I keep thinking that I should have known you were more involved than I knew. But I told you that I didn’t care, and I shouldn’t suddenly go back on that now that I’ve read about you saving Abigail Hobb’s life or putting a kidney back inside a man’s body while Jack handcuffed the harvester two steps away but I — God, I don’t know how to process the job I’ve found myself with.”

“Come over.” He sounded so sure, so solid. “I’ll have dinner for you when you get here.”

The elevator dinged and you opened your eyes to look at the dark and mostly empty main floor. With a small sigh, you stepped out. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

It actually took you a little over an hour to pull up to Hannibal’s home in Baltimore. You didn’t take all interstates, instead getting off a few exits early and driving through town at night just to take a few more seconds to yourself. Even over twenty-four hours later, you kept glancing into your rearview mirror, expecting a face in your backseat, a hand with a knife, a man with murder in his eyes.

You parked and got out, wrapping your arms around yourself as you walked up to the front door in the chill of the air. You felt exhausted, the kind of exhausted where you stumbled a little on the step up to the front door and steadied yourself with a hand on the side of his house.

When you went to knock, there was no response, but you reached for the doorknob anyway and felt it swing open. Stepping in carefully, you looked around Hannibal’s home, your heart rising into your throat.

“Hannibal?”

“In here, darling,” his response was almost immediate and you pushed the door shut firmly behind you and flicked the lock yourself. Of course he’d leave it open, he knew you were on your way. There was no need to panic.

You found him in the kitchen, prepping two separate meals, with pasta boiling on the stove behind him.

Hannibal looked up briefly from shaving some fresh parmesan, then, at your expression, laid it back on the countertop. “What is it?”

“I’m overwhelmed.” You whispered the words, then reached up and rubbed your eyes, running your hands over your face and pressing them against your skin so they wouldn’t shake. “I can’t do anything without looking over my shoulder, I can’t stop thinking about the Virginia Ripper, I couldn’t close my eyes last night without imagining him finding me, _hurting_ me —“

Hannibal wiped his hands off and rounded the counter, reaching out and grabbing you by the shoulders. “Shh,” He pulled you into his chest and you fell against him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Touching your hair, he turned his face and then muttered softly. “Have you considered quitting?”

“Yes,” You whispered the word. A week on the job and you were considering throwing it away, years at the academy, papers and files and photos that you would never get out of your head.

“It is an option.” He pulled back slightly and looked down at you. “But first, before any of this is discussed, when was the last time you ate?”

You blinked up at him, then frowned. “I… I don’t remember.”

He made a sound of disapproval, then kissed your forehead. “Sit, I’m getting you a plate of vegetarian carbonara, even though it is truly against all my culinary joys to omit the fat from this dish.” You fell onto the very stool you had sat on two nights ago, and leaned over onto the counter, resting your head for a moment.

“I’m sure it’ll still be delicious, even your’s smells amazing.”

He chuckled, “I have been called an incredible chef, though, I must admit I am not well-versed in vegetarian or vegan meal preparation. Though you’ve made me interested.”

You glanced up at him with a tired smile. “I appreciate it. If I couldn’t handle it two nights ago, I definitely can’t now.”

With a small smile, he turned and held up the parmesan again, “But you’ll amuse me and have cheese? Dairy?”

“Yes, for you.” You rested your head on your hand, looking up at him as he moved back and forth. It was methodical and almost lulling, better than counting sheep or watching the clock on your phone creep into the early hours. Instead this was tinged with light classical music he had on in the background and an easy smile on the edges of his lips as he moved around and prepared two separate pans, one with rendered fat and pancetta, the other with only butter and cheese.

As he walked back and forth, adjusting both pans and moving them around, you reached out for the water he had left for you and took a sip. You could quit, you could just walk away from the Bureau and never look back, you had other qualifications, other ways to make money.

Hannibal slid a bowl in front of you, steaming and fresh before sliding a fork onto the counter.

“Eat, stop thinking.”

You picked up the fork and glanced up at him with a half-hearted smile. “Thank you.”

The meal was so good you could barely hold yourself back from eating it all too quickly. You tried to pace yourself, even as Hannibal spun noodles around his fork across from you and sipped wine out of a sparkling glass. He was watching you, and you finally pushed your bowl back when you were finished, wiping your mouth with the cloth napkin and then glancing back at him.

“I don’t know how else to say this, so I’ll just say it. Thank you.” You swallowed around the lump in your throat, sucking in a breath. “I think I’ve learned more about myself and what I can fathom, tolerate, and manage in a few short days knowing you than I could for the first three decades of my life.” You took another drink of the water and frowned. “I just wish maybe everything would have been under better circumstances, or that at the very least, Jack hadn’t saddled me today with everything I didn’t care to know yet.”

Hannibal took a long drink and then placed his glass back on the counter. “What _was_ in those files?”

You shrugged, “God, uh,” Rubbing your face, you frowned. “Everything back to the Hobbs case, like I said, the details about Abigail, you saving you, Will shooting her father, the cases afterwards that Will solved, involvement with TattleCrime, something to do with Freddie Lounds and a false Chesapeake Ripper story?” You looked back up at him, grimacing. “I think Jack’s pushing whatever he can, praying that something big gets solved. I’m not sure he cares what it is at this point, Will in the cross-fire… He’s insisting I go back in front of the news tomorrow if the Virginia Ripper doesn’t come forward.”

“That seems like a very dangerous position to put you in.” Hannibal’s fingers twitched against the counter behind him and you watched him shake his head, sighing and clenching his jaw. “Yes, I’ve been involved in quite a few of Jack’s various whims, mostly as a consultant to Will, helping him with his mental health. But I also find myself at a cross-roads of confidentiality, and the intense desire to cut ties with Jack Crawford and go back to my life of quiet patients, hourly rates, and an office that isn’t crawling with FBI.”

You smiled at him slightly. “I can’t imagine it’s easy, juggling all of that, and it dragging you into all this. And now here I am, glued to you, making it all worse and even more of an after-hours event. I should probably just go home.” You pushed back from the counter, laughing nervously.

He stood up fully, staring at you. “That isn’t at all what I meant, and I wish you wouldn’t see yourself as just an after-hours event.” Hannibal’s eyes flickered over you, then he pursed his lips. “Perhaps the office was… a spur of the moment decision, but I can assure you, the rest of it hasn’t been. I enjoy your company, and like you said yesterday evening, I consider you a friend.”

“A friend,” the relationship felt like it was shaped differently when Hannibal said it. Last night you were reassuring him as much as yourself that whatever you had fallen into, his arms, his bed — wasn’t a breach of anything, but more a cushion away from the rest of it. But in his context it seemed to mean more. “Still, I don’t know if I’ve slept in over forty-eight hours.”

He stepped forward, “Please, sleep here, I can assure you it won’t bother me.”

You tried to fight the smile at the edges of your lips, but failed miserably. “Hannibal, I don’t _want_ to sleep when I’m around you. And I don’t think I should be fucking you if I’m ready to knock out.”

A smile twitched on the edges of his lips, “Noted. Can I at least drive you home?”

“No,” You shook your hands out and sucked in a deep breath, shaking out your shoulders before stepping around the counters to stand in front of him. “I’ll be okay, I promise.” The echoes of the sentiment from this morning still hung in the air, but you touched his chest anyway and smiled gently. “I will see you tomorrow, when I have a clearer head.”

He caught you by the arm, then pulled you back towards him. “Do you have a clear enough head for one more thing?”

You glanced up at him, laughing softly. “Are you asking if I’m stable enough for a goodnight kiss?”

He tasted like the carbonara, warm and buttery, with a hint of spice on his skin. You separated from him first and gave him a half wave before making your way back outside and to your car. On the drive back to your apartment building, you blasted cold air and music to keep your eyes open, sucking in deep breaths before finally pulling in, your head pounding from it all.

The apartment building wasn’t really a traditional building, it was two stories, split into four apartments, only three of which had actual tenants. You lived on the second floor across from Ms. Peartree and her five cats, downstairs one unit was empty and the other was often used as a party space for Douglas, the landlord’s lazy son.

You unlocked the door to the downstairs and let it shut behind you, hearing pulsating music coming from the corridor toward’s Douglas’ apartment. Rubbing your head, you staggered towards the stairs and made the longest journey up them. Ms. Peartree was staying with a friend for the holidays, and had even taken her cats, so the corridor being empty wasn’t too much of a surprise.

Your door being slightly ajar, however, was.

You stopped short, sliding your hand down to your gun against your side, never fired, never unholstered.

Wrapping your hand around it, you pulled it out slowly, the adrenaline enough in your veins to wake you up as you took a step forward toward’s your apartment door.

Only the lamp in your living room was on, where a man was sitting, crisp collared and with a smile.

“God and I have been waiting to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! I've enjoyed doing a reader fic, and I hope you all have too.


	5. Carnal Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You unknowingly find yourself at the mercy of two killers. Hannibal reveals his true nature to you.

He was everything you imagined, and nothing like it at the same time.

The preacher had carefully coiffed hair, and a crispness in his suit that you had only seen in the likes of Hannibal. He was sitting in your living room like he’d been there a thousand times before, perched with a smile as he stared at you.

Below the floor, you could hear the thump of music from Douglas’ apartment, but you couldn’t hear the normal noise that accompanied it. Shouting, laughter — it was silent except for the music.

“Take a seat, agent.” He motioned to your couch across from him. “I would very much like to talk about your feelings towards me and God.”

 _God and I, me and God_ — his package deal that gave him the authority to mutilate and murder.

You took a step, then another, before carefully sitting down on your couch and staring at him. “Let’s start with your name, what should I call you?”

“Well,” He smiled, “I’m Pastor Stone,” there was a light southern drawl, not unlike fire and brimstone preachers you saw in movies or just on social media. “And well, you know God, of course. Well, at least I hope.” He chuckled to himself, his nose crinkling. “Otherwise we’ve got too many problems for me to solve them all right now, here tonight.”

Swallowing, you hesitated a smile back to him, “Pastor Stone, I don’t have any strong feelings against you or God.”

He chuckled, tipping his head back. “Well, I know that isn’t true, don’t lie to me.” His head snapped forward, staring you down. “Don’t lie to me.”

You stared up at him, feeling the weight of your phone in your jacket pocket as you shifted to cross your legs. “I would never lie to you, Pastor Stone.” Your kept your hands placed in your lap, layered over each other as your fingers itched to dial someone — anyone — who could be here in moments. You were _so_ close to the Bureau.

He stood up suddenly and you saw the glint of the knife on his hip, as thin as a paring knife, wicked as a hunting knife, made for effectively splitting skin from bone. Pastor Stone sighed, his voice growing louder. “You have to know that it’s my duty, just like it’s the duty of all of God’s men to punish anyone who won’t listen.”

Pastor Stone was looking around your living room and your hand slid across your leg, inching towards your pocket.

He turned suddenly and you froze, carefully readjusting to rub your nose as you stared up at him. His eyes narrowed as he watched you. “They weren’t _normal_ couples. They weren’t carrying out God’s plan, not like I have to.”

“I see that now.” Your voice shook, for as much as you tried to stabilize it, there was no use. “I see that you’re doing God’s work, when no one else will.”

“Yes,” He smiled at you, shaking his head slowly. “And I have to kill you.”

In your pocket, your phone started to ring. Both you and Pastor Stone looked down. He paused and then held his hand out. “Give that here, phone calls interrupting me, so inconsiderate.”

You reached into your pocket, not looking at the caller ID as your fingers slid across the screen, answering the call as you drew your phone out. “Pastor Stone, I’m so sorry. I know you’re right, you have to kill me.”

You prayed it wasn’t a spam call, only a robot on the other end as he snatched your phone from your hands and threw it into the chair behind him without looking at the screen. The call screen was still illuminating in the dim living room and you glanced over at it, praying you could see the name.

“Pay attention to me, girl.” Pastor Stone snapped, making you jump in your seat as he touched the knife at his hip. “I’ve been watching you.”

Of course he had.

Your heart was racing so much in your chest you briefly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. Your phone screen went dark, either the call disconnected or it was still on in the background. You had to pray that it was still on as you turned your head to look up at Pastor Stone.

“I had to watch you, because from the moment I saw you on that TV I knew that you needed God.” He clicked his tongue, starting to pace in front of you. “You don’t do much, missy, you go to work, like a good girl, and then I thought, where is she headed?” His eyes flashed to you, “A house, an office. I looked into him, Dr. Lecter.”

You raised your chin as you stared up at him. “Hannibal is my friend.”

“Yes, you two looked very friendly.”

The hair at the back of your neck raised to points as you met his eyes.

“I don’t expect you’re married to Dr. Lecter?”

“No,” You answered, this time your voice didn’t shake. “But we fuck like we are.”

Pastor Stone’s hand shot out, connecting with your cheek as he smacked you firmly across the face. Your head snapped to the side, a harsh blossom of pain expanding across one side of your head. You turned back towards him and spat blood and spit onto his shiny black shoes.

“Filth.” Pastor Stone spat the word at you, “He’ll be next.”

“I’d love to see you try.” You leveled him with a look, glancing over at your phone. Even if he gutted you, you weren’t going to go down without a fight. He easily had a foot on you, towering over you while he stood, but his fingers were twitchy, his eyes couldn’t focus on you for more than a few moments before they flickered around the room.

You turned your head, glancing at your open door behind you, in clear view of him as he stood. When you looked back, Pastor Stone was looking at you.

“You can’t run.”

“I know.” You readjusted in your seat, straightening your back as you sat on the edge of the couch. “But neither can you.”

He chuckled, his brows pulling together. “That’s all I do honey, they haven’t found me yet and they won’t this next time, they probably won’t find you either.”

“You really think you’re walking out of my apartment alive.” You looked up at him, swallowing as you smiled. “Pastor Stone, I don’t know what you assume of me, maybe that I won’t fight for my own life, or that I’m not skilled enough to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“You’ve left your gun at your side, your cell phone is behind me, and no one has any reason to think you need help.” Pastor Stone gave you a sad smile, “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere after this but hell.”

Even with the steady music downstairs, you heard the creak of the third step from the landing. It had always done that, ever since you moved in months ago, and Mrs. Peartree said that no matter what the landlords tried to do, it still creaked if you walked on it.

Pastor Stone was still talking, a smug grin on his face. “I’d like to counsel you, before you go. I think it will help ease your soul to a resting place that is better for you. Of course, you deserve hell —“ He paused, looking over your shoulder and falling silent.

“It’s incredibly rude to insist someone is deserving of hell,” Hannibal’s voice washed over you. You turned sharply, staring up at him in the doorway with wide eyes. He was already taking his coat off, folding it carefully over a chair you had just next to the door. Hannibal’s eyes flickered to you as he undid his cufflinks and began rolling up his sleeves.

Tobias Budge.

You weren’t sure why the case details suddenly flew into your mind, aware Pastor Stone was at your back. A patient of Hannibal’s was friends with Tobias, and Hannibal’s statement said that Tobias went after his friend, murdered him, and then attempted to murder Hannibal.

But Hannibal’s arms, slowly exposed as your hand sunk to the gun at your hip, the way he adjusted the cuffs then dropped a hand to his pocket, producing a scalpel, the flickers of sketches on his desk, scattering to the floor.

You hadn’t meant to look at them when you got dressed in his office after hanging up on Jack, but there were some on the floor and as Hannibal stooped to pick them up, you caught a glimpse of a sketch of a man with tools expertly placed all around his body, a tortured look in his eyes. It was on the same thin paper you had seen burning in his fireplace.

Pastor Stone grabbed you around the neck, hauling you up from your seat as your gun fell from your hand. He kicked it away, holding the knife to your throat as he stared at Hannibal, his lips curling in a sneer.

“She deserves hell, and you were my next. Now I can do this properly.”

The blade pressed against your throat and Hannibal held up his hands, the scalpel pinched between two fingers. “I assure you, there is nothing proper about this, Pastor. Killing for your religion is, quite plainly, a poor excuse for your madness.” He eased forward a step and you felt the shake of Pastor Stone’s hands against you.

Hannibal would win. Wasn’t that what all the files had lead you to? Hannibal always won. From Hobbs to Budge to stacks of copycat killers — he would win, because he was the Chesapeake Ripper.

Caught between two serial killers, you realized you would much rather be in Hannibal’s arms than the arms of Pastor Stone.

“You shut up.” Pastor Stone spat the words, pulling you closer as he took a step back. You could see your gun out of the corner of your eyes, just laying on the floor. “I don’t know what you think you’ll accomplish with your tiny little knife there.”

“I’ll accomplish enough.” Hannibal assured him, a small smile lifting his lips. “Please let her go, Pastor.”

You had to step backward to relieve some of the pressure of the knife on your throat, afraid to breathe or swallow. It was so sharp, one wrong movement and you knew he would cut your throat. It could shave your skin away, expose everything in a short flick of his wrist.

Pastor Stone wavered, his hand shaking as the knife moved barely a centimeter away from your neck. You brought your head backwards sharply, connecting it with his nose and dropping to the floor, reaching out for your gun.

Pain overtook your senses as Pastor Stone jerked forward with the knife in his hands, embedding it into your shoulder. You jerked away from him, scrambling as you reached for your gun. Heavy footfalls to your right and you rolled to the left, cradling your shoulder as Pastor Stone wrapped a hand around your leg.

Hannibal descended on him.

You scrambled backwards, dragging yourself with one arm as you watched Pastor Stone stare up at you, eyes wide past Hannibal as the scalpel embedded itself in his neck. You grabbed your gun, your hand wrapping around it tightly, but not lifting it as you scrambled back far enough that your back connected with the old fireplace.

Hannibal was splattered with blood by the time he was done. He staggered to his feet, breathing hard and wiping his arm across his face. Turning, he spotted you on the floor, eyes falling to your hand on your gun.

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“No,” Your voice shook as you dropped the gun and reached up to press a hand against your shoulder. “I think he went through muscle.”

Hannibal dropped the bloody scalpel, stepping over the mangled and sliced face of Pastor Stone. Carefully, he crouched in front of you and reached out, shifting you enough that he could look at the knife embedded in your back.

“If I remove this, it will cause a great deal of pain.”

“I don’t want to live with a knife in my shoulder.” You snapped the words, your hands shaking as you turned your head to look at him. “Will I die?”

“No,” He braced a hand on your shoulder, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your hair with bloodstained lips. “Hold still, darling.”

The scream that ripped from your lips was near-feral as you slumped forward. Hannibal pressed a hand against your shoulder, bearing down on you as he reached over and grabbed one of the blankets that had fallen from your couch. With a loud rip, he had torn it in half. Carefully he wrapped your shoulder, tightening the fabric around it until you could barely move. You breathed in and out shakily, too exhausted to fight him as he shifted your body gently to lean against the fireplace again.

“I will patch this up as soon as we’re back at my home.” He leaned back, eyes flickering over you. Then suddenly, he reached out and touched your chin and neck, licking his thumb before wiping a droplet of blood off your throat. “He nicked you.”

Your eyes flickered over to the body, stomach rolling.

“Hannibal, you’re the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Yes, I am.” He was staring at you when your eyes found his face again. “I knew you saw the drawing, so I burnt it, which is a shame because I did enjoy that piece.” He cleared his throat, crouched in front of you, “I called because you didn’t let me know you got home safely, then I heard.”

You swallowed and looked up at him, it looked like there were about three Hannibal’s, swimming around you, leaning in and out. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your vision.

“Stay awake.” He commanded softly, shifting again and tightening the ripped blanket around your shoulder. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“No,” You rasped, clearing your throat as your head pounded. “I want to disappear.”

Hannibal was silent for a moment, and you felt his eyes on you as you forced yourself to turn your head and look at him.

“Help me pack a bag.”

+

Jacqueline had been clear, this was the address of a little coffee shop she adored. All hours in Paris you could find parties, food, and shopping, but it was the smaller places that you liked to seek solace in.

You stopped on the cobblestones to stare at the small shop, sucking in a breath before walking up the little step and taking a seat at the cafe seats outside. The cafe at your back, you reached into your bag, pulling out a letter written on fine and thin paper.

It was dated four years ago.

You unfolded it carefully, the letter you could recite in front of an audience. “ _Darling_ , _I hope this finds you well_ —“ But that wasn’t the only reason you carried it around. You carried it for the small, index card sized piece of parchment, folded inside the letter. Your face, half turned, back bare and exposed as you laughed. Hannibal had sketched you, the night you stayed at his house over six years ago, before you found everything out.

Paris was not your first choice.

You lived in Amsterdam, London, Edinburgh, Dublin, Inverness, Croatia, Romania — even Bavaria for a time. For two years you flitted between addresses, an aching shoulder every time it rained as a reminder of what you fled from in the middle of the night. It didn’t make international news, but that didn’t matter, it made TattleCrime and that’s all you needed to garner what facts Jack and the rest of the unit had figured out.

Your entire apartment building had been slaughtered, first Douglas and his friends on the first floor, then Pastor Stone had crept upstairs, rifled through Mrs. Peartree’s home to find no one living, and waited for you in your living room. Lounds wrote that the murder was so gruesome, so stark, that it could only have been a revenge killing, relating it back to a man named Dr. Gideon who claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper for a time.

But you knew the real ripper, and he wrote you letters and sent you sketches.

You ran your fingertips over the sketch, barely ghosting them across the paper, then folded it back inside the letter and slipping it into your purse. Jack Crawford couldn’t find you, you imagined he had stopped looking, like he stopped for Miriam Lass. Either under the idea that Hannibal had killed you too, or that Pastor Stone had hidden your body before his own had been mutilated. You actually didn’t care what he believed, as long as you never stepped foot inside the FBI again.

You didn’t have the stomach for people for a solid year, and that wasn’t a pun on Hannibal’s diet. Living alone, month to month, in small European towns, only carrying the bag on your shoulder and a small smile for anyone who had a room to rent for a short period of time. You learned a lot, then traveled to a new place, learned some more, and traveled again.

Lithuania, as much as you had never intended to visit, drew you in for a month. You walked grounds of estates and castles, and used the only skills you took from the FBI to find the home of the Count Lecter. Italy was your stop afterward, memorials on street corners for victims of the Monster of Florence.

It was strange to walk streets and pathways you were sure he had, to pass people who cast looks at memorials and worn stones like they had spent too long, kneeling and sobbing over those they had lost.

“ _Pardon madame_ ,” A waiter startled you out of your thoughts and you looked up at he placed a coffee on the table in front of you.

“I didn’t order anything.” You cleared your throat, looking up at him.

He smiled, his English heavily accented. “Yes, a man sent it to you.” You followed his gaze to just inside the cafe, sitting at the bar with a cup of coffee of his own.

A sleek and clean grey suit, pinstriped with green. Black loafers and a jacket laying on the stool next to him. You didn’t want to get your hopes up, how often had you seen Hannibal Lecter’s ghost out of the corner of your eye in the past six years?

Then he lifted his head and turned it slightly, his lips quirking upwards as he gave you a gentle smile and nodded his head once.

You wrapped your hand around the cup of coffee, staring at him wordless as he gathered his jacket and his own cup. Hannibal stepped out into the dim lighting of the patio, walking slowly towards you until he motioned to the seat next to you.

“May I sit?”

“Yes,” You stared up at him as he carefully hung his jacket over the back of the chair and placed his coffee down. Then he was sitting across from you, like almost a decade hadn’t passed, except there were a few more lines around his eyes, silver pieces in his hair, and newer scars on his arms.

He smiled over at you, the gentle touch never leaving his face, his eyes warm.

“It’s good to see you.”

You hesitated, then reached out, touching his arm first, then wrapping your hand around his. “You’re here, it’s you.”

He covered your hand with his other one, turning slightly in the chair so he could dip his head down and meet your eyes. “I am, and it is.” Hannibal smiled a little more, then reached over and pushed your hair out of your face. “You’ve cut it, it looks nice.”

You turned your face into his hand, laughing softly as you felt your heart give way to everything you’d spent six years trying to drown. Expert hands, skilled machines in surgery, dissection, murder — but also touching you.

Your eyes flickered over his face again, thousands of questions swirling around your head, until you finally settled on one. “Why did you stop writing?”

You sent him a letter six months after leaving DC, with a bandaged shoulder, stitched by him inside his kitchen while you were high on pain pills. Your letter wasn’t written well, but in desperation to reach him, to have some kind of connection again, you wrote about Amsterdam and it’s red lights, how your shoulder ached and how you didn’t think you could miss a moment in time as much as you missed him.

His response came a few months later, left with the owner of the bed and breakfast you had been staying in for almost two weeks straight. You wondered how he could find you, but then decided it was best not to question it.

“I had other things.” The admission floated into the evening air. Hannibal’s eyes flickered over you. “But I never forgot.”

“Maybe you should have.” You whispered the words, pulling your hand away from between his. “Maybe we both should have looked the other way.” Sleepless nights and intense pain for two years, your heart in your throat every time you turned a corner in a new city, so _sure_ he was there to kill you for what you knew, but the small thrill of hoping to see him again always won out.

He cleared his throat and looked down at his coffee for a moment. Then he licked his lips and raised his eyes to yours again. “My professional opinion would be that, unfortunately, we’re trauma bound, like two strays who find each other. A linear line instead of a pack, but bonded none-the-less. Perhaps through the shared motions we both went through for Jack Crawford, or less so, an unshakable knowledge of what happened behind closed doors and pulled curtains.”

You stared back at him, wordless, letting everything hang for a moment as you processed. Then finally, you asked the only other question on your mind. “Why didn’t you kill me that night?”

Hannibal frowned. “I hoped it was clear after I stitched you up in my kitchen that I would be absolutely devastated if you died.”

Honestly, time and pain and pills had clouded a lot of those memories. You remembered slumping against him, the searing pain as he stitched up your shoulder without anesthetic, keeping you aloft with his hands and voice alone, keeping you talking. You slept for only a few hours, on his couch with your shoulder bandaged and your bloody clothes discarded, then you left.

“Hannibal,” your voice softened as you said his name, rolling it around your tongue for good measure. “I don’t know if I can pick up what we left six years ago and continue on in the same way. I think… I think I need to know, what happened, what will happen.”

He nodded, his lips pursing. “I believe that’s a fair request.”

He adjusted his shirt, then turned and looked down at both your stone cold coffees. Then, Hannibal turned and stood up, picking up his jacket and shouldering it on. He extended a hand to you. “Let’s take a walk, darling.”

You took his hand, pulled up by the sheer size and strength of him as your fingers intertwined with his and you both stepped off the sidewalk to walk along the empty streets. Just as you asked, he told you everything, sparing no detail too fine or too gruesome.

Occasionally your hand would tighten in his at the mention of something, names, faces, details — _slaughters_ floated through your imagination. It was worse than what you could have expected to leave behind, but at the same time you couldn’t really find it in you to recoil from him. He spoke of it all like it was a distant and fuzzy memory.

The two of you slowed to a stop in front of a tall building that reached at least four floors up to the evening sky. Glancing over at Hannibal, you laughed lightly. “Why are we stopping?”

“We’re home.” He looked back at you before sliding his hand away from your’s and producing a key from his pocket. As he unlocked the door, you stared up at the building, a sense of peace washing over you as he motioned you inside.

The interior was so similar to his home in Baltimore that you found yourself turning in a small circle, trying to take it all in. There were obvious differences, like the high, old ceilings that had been foiled with gold painted accents, and wainscoting framing the walls from floor to ceiling, everything painted dark green.

When you completed a circle, Hannibal was watching you in front of the front door. His eyes flickered over you, then tilted his head. “You haven’t changed,” The creases next to his eyes were warm, “And you aren’t scared.”

“Hannibal,” You looked away, shaking your head as you began to pull your jacket off. He stepped forward and helped you ease your arms out of it as you spoke softly. “I have spent six years wandering the world myself, walking streets where you have infamy, and instead of walking away from it all, I came home with you.” You turned to look at him over your shoulder, “I think we’re both adult enough to know why.”

He hung your coat up next to the front door and then mirrored the action again with his own. Standing in the hallway, you stared at him and he stared back, wordless as the air hung heavy with silence.

Finally he took a step towards you. His hand touched your cheek, fingers gentle as they drug down your skin, thumb ghosting along your jawline. You turned your head, following his fingers as your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. He still smelled like citrus and musk, some kind of cologne that probably had a ship on the bottle. As he stepped closer, nearly bringing you both chest to chest, you reached out and touched his arm, fingers drawing lines over his forearm.

He was strong, a pillar of unshakable danger, yet still lithe as a big cat.

Hannibal leaned in, nose touching yours as your lips parted. Then he pushed you back, pinning you against the carefully painted wall, his hand landing on your hip as his lips caught your’s. You let out a tiny noise of shock against his lips, it dying out into a soft moan as he pressed his whole body against you. It had been a while since you had been with anyone, even longer since you’d felt him.

His hand pulled at your hip and you parted your legs for him as he grabbed at the bottom of your sweater, loosely hanging over a dress you had on. You weren’t sure you would make it to all your clothes being off, and a flash of warmth shot through your body as you pulled him closer and kissed him harder. The memories of the desk had _never_ left you alone.

A low sound in the back of his throat made your skin prickle as he pulled away from your lips for half a second, pushing the sweater up off over your head and stopped short. The bottom of the dress you were wearing was very simple, just a black material that hung around your legs loosely, but the top was a bustier, something you’d found in a shop along the Seine and decided you liked enough to purchase.

His eyes flickered over your chest, then over your skin as his fingers itched on your hips. You met his eyes with a tiny smile, then sucked in a breath as a slow grin crept up his lips.

“You look _divine_.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, then a flash of desire through your veins as he pinned you against the wall, his hands wandering over your body as he dropped his lips to your’s again and kissed you harder, passionately. Hannibal inhaled with his head buried against the cusp of your neck, nose pressing against your skin as his mouth ached forward, teeth skimming your skin as you breathed harder.

Your dress fell to the floor as you slid your hands over his arms, finding the buttons of his dress shirt and pulling at them to get it off of him. Hannibal pinned your arms back, hands wrapped firmly around your wrists as you breathed out in a huff and jerked your head to look up at him.

“Stay still.”

“Make me.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and you both broke out in grins before he pressed against you, lean and hard muscle just under skin. One of his hands let your’s go and you fisted it in his hair, grabbing onto him as he lifted you up by the hip. You wrapped your legs around him, sandwiched between him and the wall as he pushed his pants down just enough.

Your hips slid down, rolling against him as you moaned against his mouth, skin on fire as he shifted his hand to cup you and slide his fingers over your underwear. With two fingers, he hooked them around the seat of your panties and pulled the fabric to the side.

Hannibal settled against you, his breath hot across your skin as you looked up at him, heart racing in your chest. You were going to combust if he didn’t touch you, and you tugged on his hair with your fingers, breathing hard as you met his eyes. “I need you.”

His hand on your hip bore down harder, and then jerked you forward as he pressed into you. The feeling of him was nearly too much as you arched off the wall and scrambled to grab at him, your moan cutting off in your throat as he kissed you and swallowed the sound. Your hips jerked into his, breathing hard and heavily as your other hand grabbed at his shoulders, bracing yourself as you moved with him, the pleasure almost worth the wait.

Your shoulders smacked against the wall as he stepped closer, your bodies touching everywhere they can as he grabbed your chin and kissed you harder, teeth tugging and nipping at your lips. With a strangled whimper, you felt your legs start to shake, clinging to him as he held you up, his arms were the only thing stopping the two of you ending up on the floor again.

Hannibal’s lips pressed against your jaw, then your neck, parting as his teeth lay against your throat. His voice was just as strained as your’s as he whispered. “Let go, darling.”

You cried out, no hint of trying to stay quiet as his hand crept between the two of you, finding your clit and rubbing it quickly as he slammed into you faster. Within moments, you were keening, writhing against him and away from the wall as your breathing quickened. You finally felt yourself let go, crying out his name as he kissed you passionately, your toes curling as you orgasmed. His lips drew back, away from your’s before his head dropped back down to your throat and bit down hard enough that you jerked against him as his hips slammed into you once, twice, then he was grunting, shaking as he held you up.

Your body was slick with sweat and it was too hard to form a thought as you glanced up at him, sucking in a ragged breath. He looked just as overwhelmed, lips red and eyes black as he slowly let you stand on your own two feet.

Reaching out, you touched his chin, dragging your nails along his skin gently before pulling him into a breathless kiss and pulling him down the hallway a step. Hannibal laughed against your lips, kicking his pants off and leaving a trail of clothing behind the two of you as you drug him up the stairs step by step.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you rolled over in his bed to see a small and dim light shining on his nightstand. But he was leaning against the headboard, paper in hand as he stared down at it, carefully stroking a pencil across it.

Turning over in bed, you grumbled slightly and sought out his chest, burying your nose into the hair there as you turned away from the light and then peeked up at him.

“What are you doing?”

Hannibal’s eyes flickered down, then his hand stilled and he pulled the pencil away, twisting the paper down towards you. Even in the dim lighting you could see yourself, half sketched with the Seine in the background, hair just slightly in your face, eyes wide and smiling.

Your heart felt like it stopped as you turned your gaze back towards him, hands tightening their grip on him. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled softly, turning to lay it on the nightstand. “It can be finished tomorrow.” Flicking the lamp off, his fingers ghosted over the top of your shoulder, hand cupping your skin before they sought out the fine scar along your skin.

A wound stitched by him in a dim kitchen where you’d sat on your counter, wrapped up in him, and now here you both were, tangled in soft sheets as the pads of his fingers carefully drug up and down the mark.

Turning your head into his chest, you exhaled softly, kissing the spot just above his heart, whispering the word. “Goodnight.”

Hannibal’s fingers stilled for a moment, then he bent forward enough to kiss the crown of your head, unspoken words hanging between his hushed voice. “Goodnight, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this short little piece! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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